I don’t want to sound too disrespectful at this sad time, but I can’t help thinking that my most abiding memory of the late Michael Jackson will be of the time he appeared at the Brit Awards in 1996, and his Christ-impersonation was interrupted by a drunken Jarvis Cockerleaping on to the stage to expose his bottom. That event, or more accurately the public response to it, which was overwhelmingly in favour of Cocker, marked the point when the balance between those who saw Jackson as a talented entertainer with some charming eccentricities, and those who thought of him as a creepy weirdo who could sing a bit, shifted irrevocably in favour of the latter.

The weekend just past reminded me that experiences don’t come much more immersive than sitting in the garden on a warm summer day, watching the bees buzz around the fragrant flowers, listening to the birds twitter, feeling the gentle breeze and enjoying the taste of an ice-cold beer.

This blog pretty much died a death last summer, and I can see the same thing happening this year. It took the US elections to shake us out of our torpor; there may be a general election coming here, but probably not before October, so that leaves a few months to fill in.

Both Olivia and I are too old, and too encumbered by adult responsibilities, to go to summer festivals any more, so we were thinking of checking out the Second Life equivalents, like the virtual Woodstock, or Burning Life, but, to be honest, they look pretty dull, so we’ll probably stick to our usual festival simulation – going to the park with some friends, a bottle of wine, a bag of weed and an iPod.